


Love

by ThornWild



Series: Moments [8]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Episode: s06e08 Tabula Rasa, F/M, horny spike, season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 15:38:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThornWild/pseuds/ThornWild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike has dreamt of Buffy for so long. Now he's so close to having her, he doesn't quite know what to do with himself. So he paces his crypt, pondering the meaning of the word love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love

It’s the second time they’ve kissed, properly kissed, of their own free will. He can still feel her lips on his, if he shuts his eyes, and her scent lingers in his nostrils, her taste on his tongue. A taste and a scent which are innately and uniquely _Buffy_ in nature. Not just Slayer – though the scent of her slayer blood always shines through, intoxicating him, always making him just a little bit hard with its promise even before he knew he felt anything for her – but Buffy Summers. The scent comes off her hair, it’s released through her sweat, and that taste, in her saliva, her pores, hot and sweet and full of promise and life. So much life. He wants to know how that taste translates elsewhere. He perceived the scent of her arousal, when he kissed her, when she let herself become soft and pliant and let his tongue inside her mouth, let him kiss the pain away, and he knows she was sopping wet for him.

Then she went away, left him there, left him with her taste and her scent surrounding him, making him so hard he didn’t know what to do with himself.

He’s still in that state now, pacing his crypt, unable or unwilling to do something about it. His hand simply won’t do when all he wants is her. Fuck knows he’s spilled enough of his seed over her in the past, taken comfort in his own fist, laid back and closed his eyes and _dreamt_ of her, but the closer he comes to the real thing, the less any substitute will do. 

He knew that already, from the moment her lips touched his, chastely and gently, when he laid bruised and broken right here, in his crypt. That was when he realised the Buffy-bot would never do again, that even if he could get it back he didn’t want it anymore. He just wanted _her_. He doesn’t count that kiss, though, just as he doesn’t count the numerous snogs he enjoyed with her when they were under Willow’s spell two years ago. The former was without passion, and the latter were without free will. But now…

He knows, rationally, that she doesn’t love him. That these kisses, these two instances – somehow both taking place at or near the Bronze, the place where he first laid eyes on her such a long time ago, though it feels like only yesterday – were caused by her grief, her pain, her apathy, her willingness to feel _something_ , _anything_ , even with him. He knows that she comes to him because she wants the darkness, the safety of his solitude and silence. Because she wants to escape from her friends’ looks of pity, even more so now that they all know where she’s been, what she’s sacrificed, what they took from her. 

He knows all this, and though it should tear him apart, somehow he doesn’t care. If he can have her, any part of her, he can ignore the rest. At least that’s what he tells himself.

But he wants more. If he cannot have her heart, at least he wants her body. He wants her touch, her lips… And he wants her cunt. He wants to feel her wetness beneath his fingers, he wants to taste her, he wants to fuck her. Hard and brutal, or soft and gentle, he doesn’t care. He’ll do it any way she wants as long as he can have _her_. 

Sitting down in his chair, he wonders idly what little kinks she has. What does the Slayer like best? What does she look for in a man, in the purely physical sense? Does she like it rough? Will she want him to hurt her? Can he, chip and all, if she asks him to? Or is she as sweet and innocent as she looks, vanilla desires wrapped up in sugar and spice and all things nice? Somehow he doubts it. Judging by her demanding mouth and her taste in men, it seems unlikely that she wants no more than sweet and gentle love-making. There must be some reason why Captain Cardboard couldn’t do it for her, as tall and muscled and athletic as he no doubt was. 

Surely he equated romance with soppy glances, handholding and sweet nothings, featherlight touches and vapid words. But Spike knows that true romance is passionate, painful and sweet, dark, full of lust and desire. It’s about wanting someone so badly, loving them so deeply, that you can barely control yourself in their presence. True love – real, deep love – burns you from the inside, drains you and fills you up again, consumes you, eats you whole and spits you back out. That is what love _is_.

But what it _means_? Undying devotion. Heartfelt, honest, raw, whispered, roaring affection. Confessions, caresses, an uncontained cornucopia of clear-cut candour. Sincerity. Sensibility. Submission.

So, he’ll play the Big Bad. He’ll drag her into the darkness with him, make her admit that she wants him, make her his. But once she is, all that matters will be her. He’ll give her the lead and let her tug him along by his fucking heartstrings until it kills him. Because that… That is what love _does_.


End file.
